I imagine horror-things. Not horrible things, those
I don’t have to imagine, but horror-things. Things
that skitter in deep shadows, or tap on the glass
of the window where the pane is reflective of
something deeper, or the late night shifting of
dishes in the kitchen–it should be frightful, but
instead, I just feel less alone.
This head is too full of ghosts. Not the movie kind,
but the you kind; the you and them I’ve tried and
failed to leave behind kind. The you and them
reminding me that the dead don’t rise, that there
are no clean getaways, and that none of us get
out of this alive.
So why
do I have to feel so prematurely dead inside?
Void Engineer 